


Daffodils Bloom After Winter

by vannahfanfics



Category: Boruto: Naruto Next Generations, Naruto
Genre: Angst, Angst and Drama, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama, Drama & Romance, Estrangement, F/M, Family Drama, Hurt and comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Love and Hurt, Original Character - Freeform, Romance, Sad, Shikamaru is a Single Dad, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-18 00:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21518620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vannahfanfics/pseuds/vannahfanfics
Summary: Stricken by the untimely death of a devoted wife and mother, the Nara family struggles to pick up the broken pieces of their lives. As Shikamaru and Shikadai are continuously driven apart from struggling to deal with this tragedy, it seems as if nothing will ever be the same between them. Can a kindhearted teacher bridge the gap between father and son, and prove that the flower of love can always bloom twice?
Relationships: Nara Shikamaru/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 80
Collections: Naruto - Shikamaru Nara x Reader/OC Recommendations





	1. Foreword

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, everyone! As some as you may know, this is a rewrite of my first (and most popular) fanfiction, First Comes Hurt, Then Comes Love. For those of you who are returning readers, I hope you find this new-and-improved version to be more impactful and enjoyable than before! For those of you who are new readers, thank you for taking the time to read my passion project and I hope that you enjoy Shikamaru and Ayumi's journey. Happy reading, everyone!
> 
> Also, this story has a playlist! You can find it here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3UKs3R2T4c0GDBOmgyWtFl

The rain drummed insistently against the roof tiles, unrelenting, unyielding in its symphony. It pounded in Shikamaru’s eardrums as he lay on his side on the living room floor. He used to love the rain; its soothing melody was white noise in the background, just the perfect tune to lull him to sleep. Now, he could never sleep when it rained. Its low hum was now like a threatening roar in his ears. Without turning, he reached behind his back to pull a throw pillow from the couch and clamp it down against his ear, hoping the cushion would absorb the sound and free him from its incessant assault.

He couldn’t hear the rain anymore, but the steady beat of his blood in his ear was too eerily reminiscent of it for comfort. With an angry grunt, he chucked the throw pillow across the room. It landed with a soft _thwap!_ against the wall before dropping down to the wooden floor. Above the place where it had struck, just slightly higher than Shikamaru’s tall frame, was a sleek black fan mounted to the wall. Shikamaru could see his reflection of the window in its shiny casing, where just enough light from the streetlamps reflected across the kaleidoscope of raindrops streaming down the glass pane.

The raindrops turned red. A scream shrieked shrilly in his ears. The rain kept pounding, echoing like a war drum in the deep, sounding the sky’s resolution to drive Shikamaru insane.

“ _Fuck_!” he cursed angrily but softly as he threw himself onto his other side to escape the nightmarish vision. He curled his body slightly as his stomach did somersaults, making him physically ill. His face scrunched up in agonizing pain. His heart thrummed like it was trying to rip itself out of its chest. He deeply desired to tear it out of his chest himself, to end his misery once and for all. He wondered if the rain would ever stop, or if it would drown him, sending him down into the abyss.

“ _Temari_ …” 

_Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this story, aside from my OC(s). These rights belong exclusively to Masashi Kishimoto._


	2. Will the Rain Ever Stop?

Shikadai’s bright blue eyes traced the movement of the sunny yellow pencil as he flicked it up the slight slope of the school desk, watching as its momentum peaked. It froze before slowly reversing direction to roll back down to his waiting finger. _Flick. Roooooooll. Flick. Roooooooll._ After about five minutes of his newest attempt to do anything but listen to the droning lecture of the teacher, he exhaled sharply and grabbed the pencil, no longer entertained. He slid it behind his ear and leaned over to rest on his crossed arms, staring uncomprehendingly at the white chalk scrawled across the board. He would love to sleep, but this particular instructor talked so loudly that it was challenging to drown him out. What was he even talking about? It looked like applied mathematics, based on the figure and accompanying equations he was explaining. _No thanks. That’s a drag,_ he thought with a yawn.

He glanced out of the corners of his eyes. He just had one more period, and then he would be free of this boring mess. Free to what, though, exactly? It’s not like Shikadai had much to look forward to. At the sour thought, Shikadai curled slightly into himself, eyes narrowing. Nothing to look forward to at all.

He was barely even aware of the class change until the other young ninja chorused with a joyful greeting. He cast his gaze to the front of the room where a beautiful chestnut-haired woman in a summery green sundress was eagerly returning the sentiment.

She was their class’ history teacher, Ayumi-sensei. It was a bit of an odd situation because she had retired shortly after she had made Chunin, though no one really knew the story of why. It was an avid debate amongst the children in her classroom. Some theories were reasonable, like she just didn’t enjoy the work, while others were absurd fantastical tales like she had never been a ninja at all, and she was just working as a teacher in some sort of witness protection. Shikadai was inclined to agree with the former hypothesis.

Ayumi-sensei’s popularity was primarily due to how unbelievably _kind_ she was. She never yelled and was always patient with every student, no matter how much of a blockhead they were (a.k.a. Boruto). She was also just incredibly passionate about what she taught. Ayumi-sensei was the resident history teacher. She had once told the class that she was an archaeologist, but it wasn’t very often that her skills were put to use. Ayumi had taken up teaching so that she could inspire young minds to have an appreciation for how history affects the present day. It was a nice sentiment and all, but Shikadai righteously didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything that happened way back when with a bunch of dusty old guys. It had happened already, so why did it matter?

Naturally, this was the class period where he got his _best_ naps. As if his body reacted of its own will, his eyes began to droop, and his mind refused to register the words of his teacher’s sing-song, honey-sweet voice. His face sunk into the embracing fabric of his jacket sleeves. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards into a slight smile. Sleeping was good. Sleep meant dreams, and dreams were always better than reality- especially _his_ reality.

Shikadai had not even sunk fully into unconsciousness before Ayumi’s voice cracked like a whip.

“Shikadai! Wake up!” Her voice did not have a harsh enough edge to drag him from the comforts of his snooze completely; he mumbled something intelligible and tossed his head in his arms a little, attempting to get more comfortable. His eye twitched as the room chorused with a series of quiet giggles. Shikadai’s head began to pound with a dull headache as his well-desired nap continued to elude him, trapping him in the very undesirable twilight of near-sleep.

As it turned out, it was not a headache at all, but Ayumi-sensei’s flats pounding against the steps as she ascended the room to shove him roughly in the side of the head.

“Okay, okay, I’m up! I won’t fall asleep again.”

It had begun to rain. It had rained _that_ day, too. Before, Shikadai had loved the rain, because the gentle drum had always been a pleasant way to lull him to sleep. Now, it was just another painful reminder.

As promised, he did not fall asleep; not that he could now, anyway. He laid his head on his arm, eyes trained on the window opposite him. The rain was falling rather heavily; the water streamed down the glass pane like a shimmering waterfall, leaving the outside world a colorful blur in its ribbons of liquid. This time he did have a headache, beating against his skull to the rhythm of the pounding rain.

With a snort, he dragged his attention away from the window and locked it onto Ayumi-sensei for once. He would rather be bored out of his mind than depressed. Today’s topic was the founding of the Leaf Village, which had been the catalyst for the end of the era of warring clans and the establishment of the ninja world as they knew it. A disinterested groan rumbled from his throat, and he buried his face back into his sleeve. _Nope. Not happening._

“Shikadai, what did I _just_ tell you?” He hadn’t even realized he had drifted off, but there she was again, standing next to him with her foot tapping wildly against the surface of the floor. A bolt of electricity shot through Shikadai’s head as his headache shot up a notch, because the tapping mirrored the infuriating, relentless beating of the rain outside.

“Whaaaaat?” he whined as he flung himself back in his chair, incredibly bitter that he had been interrupted. His bottom lip poked out in a dour pout as Ayumi clicked her tongue at him, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. Even that way, she didn’t look mean or ornery, just disappointed. It was the _disappointment_ that got most people in the class to behave. Admittedly, even Shikadai wasn’t immune to it. He muttered something about staying awake and put his hands behind his head, sliding his gaze to the desk because he was simply unable to meet hers. He wasn’t sure why it affected him so much, but it did.

No. Shikadai _did_ know why. Ayumi-sensei looked just like his mother when she was disappointed.

Shikadai’s stomach somersaulted his belly, making him feel incredibly nauseous all of a sudden. Ayumi was content with his promise to pay attention and returned to the board to resume her lecture. Shikadai had agreed to stay awake, but now he was physically incapable of paying attention. His breath hitched slightly in his throat as he struggled to remain some semblance of calm. He had been doing so well. He hadn’t thought about it in so long. Why did he have to think of something like that _now_? He felt a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his head. His fingers dug insistently into the fabric of his pants. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them tenaciously as his vision began to haze. When he opened them, it wasn’t his teacher standing there pointing at the board but his mother, smiling gently at him, just like he remembered. He snapped his eyes closed again. Frantic whispers ghosted through his lips as he descended further into panic. Suddenly, when he could not take it any longer, he jumped up and shouted, “I have to go to the bathroom!” He bolted out of the classroom without waiting for permission.

~~~~~~~~~~

Inojin found him dry-heaving in the school bathroom.

“Shikadai?” the boy called tentatively over the sound of himself nearly retching into the toilet. He was curled up against the porcelain surface, shivering as sweat poured down his face, and he found back the urge to cry. Shikadai could only manage a wretched groan in response. He heard Inojin’s feet shuffle, and then the bathroom door jiggled a bit as Inojin tried the lock. Shikadai hadn’t locked it, of course; he hadn’t thought anyone would’ve bothered to come after him. The door creaked loudly as the blonde boy carefully pushed it open. “Ayumi-sensei sent me to come check on you… Are you sick?” he asked softly. Inojin was smarter than that; he knew what was happening, but he was choosing his words carefully for Shikadai’s benefit.

“It’s almost been a year.” Shikadai’s face scrunched up as the tears he had been trying to suppress leaked out of his eyes. He pressed his forehead against the toilet seat, relishing the cooling sensation against his hot skin even though it was probably gross as hell. “A _year_ , Inojin…” He was a ninja. He couldn’t act like this. A ninja was supposed to suppress their emotions; that was the _rule_. He clenched his teeth so tightly that they could’ve shattered as his tears splashed across the toilet seat. “But it still hurts so _bad_ ,” he wheezed as he clutched at his chest. He had experienced the feeling many times, that painful twisting in his chest that made it so impossibly hard to breathe, but that never lessened the pain.

Inojin had never been the most eloquent with words. Instead of attempting to console him that way, he walked over to sit next to him, back against the toilet seat, and took out his sketchbook and began drawing. To the casual observer, it may have seemed callous, but just at his presence, Shikadai felt immediately soothed. He cried it out for a few minutes before he was finally able to collect himself. With a shaky sigh, he sat up and rubbed at his eyes. He didn’t want the whole damn class to know that he had been bawling in the bathroom, after all.

“Better?” Inojin inquired bluntly. His eyes did not leave the stylized doodle of a lion that he was inking onto the page.

“Yeah.” Shikadai voice sounded harsh and coarse. Inojin’s nimble fingers added a few more brushstrokes before he set the brush down and tore out the sketchbook page and held it out to Shikadai. His dark eyebrows crept up his forehead as he took it hesitantly. “What’s this for?”

“’Cuz you’re brave.” A pink haze dusted Shikadai’s cheeks, and he pursed his lips while looking away, trying not to seem too flattered. He wasn’t good with words, but Inojin was very good with gestures.

“Tch. I’m not hanging it on the fridge like your mom does, I hope you know.” A smile tugged at his mouth, betraying his happiness. Inojin stood up and held out a hand for him, which he took and allowed his friend to pull him to his feet. He splashed some cold water on his face, doing his best to erase the redness from his skin to at least make his fit not too visible, before accompanying his friend back to the classroom. He kept the drawing clutched in his hand.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ayumi-sensei had not chastised him when he had trudged back into the room with Inojin, only tossed him a mildly concerned glance while continuing her lecture. No doubt, he was going to have to stay behind for some sort of sermon or another. _What a drag._ Shikadai contented himself with tracing the inky patterns of the lion drawing. That thankfully held his attention well enough to keep him from nodding off and earning yet a third address from the irritated woman. He only became aware of the fact that the class had ended when the screeching of several chairs against the tile resounded in his ears.

Shikadai pushed his chair back and carefully picked up the drawing. He didn’t have a bag to tuck it into; all he ever brought with him was a pencil, and its use was dependent on his mood and the stakes of the assignment. He glanced out of the window. _Still raining._ He clicked his tongue in annoyance. Home was a considerable walk, and the drawing would definitely be destroyed if he didn’t take special care not to get it wet. It was pouring so insistently that even if he folded it up and tucked it into the woven steel mesh shirt beneath his jacket, it would still be ruined. He mulled over the possibilities as he descended the steps one by one, but arrived at no solid conclusion before arriving at the door. Exhaling deeply, he looked out into the yard.

On days like this, the parents often came to pick up their children. They were clustered in the grass lawn, holding umbrellas as they embraced his classmates and amiably talked about their school day. Himawari, Boruto’s little sister, was splashing around in a puddle in rain boots as the blonde boy elatedly bragged about something or other to his mother, who was smiling gently. Inojin’s father had come to retrieve him today, handing his friend a rain jacket before the two walked off together. Chocho was talking to her mother through the bag of chips that she was eagerly scarfing down. Sarada was animatedly talking to her mother about helping her study for the test in a few weeks.

Shikadai’s father hadn’t come for him. He never did. The edges of the paper wrinkled a little as Shikadai gripped it tightly. The frustrating tears were stinging his cheeks again. He shouldn’t have to miss his father too. A little bit of blood dribbled down his lip as his teeth sank deep into the soft flesh.

He wanted to dream. He wanted to escape, because his reality was a _big, fat major drag._

He inhaled sharply after a second, shaking his head furiously from side to side. _Get over it, Shikadai. It’s been too long now. Just because your old man can’t get past it doesn’t mean you gotta be a depressed jerk too._ He released the breath he was holding, then inhaled, then exhaled again. He glanced down at the drawing of the lion. A few raindrops had already landed on its surface, darkening the pristine white. Calm washed over him. _Gotta be brave._

Shikadai’s foot had barely passed the threshold of the door to step onto the spongey ground before Ayumi-sensei’s sing-song voice echoed behind him.

“It would be such a shame for that to be ruined, don’t you think? Here, give that to me, Shikadai.” He whipped around, his blue eyes wide with shock as he defensively held the drawing to his chest. She was standing behind him with the flap of her shoulder bag open and an unopened umbrella in her hand, looking at him expectantly. It was a trap. It _had_ to be. The whole walk home, she would lecture him about sleeping in class. He just _knew_ it.

Shikadai glanced over his shoulder at the now empty lawn, measuring his response.

He turned around and slipped the piece of paper into her waiting shoulder bag, then stood next to her as she opened the umbrella and walked him outside.

He didn’t want to be alone in the rain anymore.


	3. The Storm

“It would be such a shame for that to be ruined, don’t you think? Here, give that to me, Shikadai.” Ayumi extended her hand generously as Shikadai whipped around in the threshold of the door with a startled gasp, clutching the inked drawing to his chest with wide blue eyes. As he stood there, measuring her up, raindrops spattered over his shoulders as the wind insistently whipped the rain around outside. He seemed as if he were trying to riddle out what trap she was trying to set for him, but truthfully, Ayumi had no ulterior motives in mind. It didn’t take a genius to know that Shikadai was a troubled boy, and it was the duty of a teacher to extend their hands to all their charges, especially the problematic ones.

After a moment of consideration, he timidly closed the distance between them to carefully slip the drawing into her open shoulder bag. Ayumi had to smile at the delicate care in which he secured the picture amongst her papers and books; sending Inojin after the boy during his fit had been a good decision on her part. Humming contentedly, Ayumi flipped the cloth bag closed and latched it before stepping to the door to open the umbrella to the rain. The big, fat raindrops immediately slapped against its rubbery surface with great insistency. The way that Shikadai flinched at the sound did not go unnoticed to her. _Does he hate the rain?_ she wondered as she hefted the umbrella over the two of them and stepped out into the sopping wet yard. Shikadai trudged silently alongside her.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to escort you to the Hokage’s office,” she told him primly as she traipsed with him through the puddled yard. She spoke up a little, soft-spoken voice overshadowed by the constant drumming of the hard rain and the puddles splashing around their feet. “I’ve yet to meet your father, and I would like to introduce myself. Besides,” she said with a small, sad smile down at him. “I would be remiss to let you walk home by yourself in this weather.”

Shikadai’s lips were slightly pursed as he eased his hands into his pants pockets.

“S’no big deal. This happens all the time,” he grumbled. Ayumi’s lips were drawn into a taut line. She knew this; it was a sporadic occurrence that his father, Shikamaru, came to pick him up from school. Honestly, the last time Ayumi could distinctly remember clapping eyes on the man was that year’s entrance ceremony. She clearly remembered his tall, thin form, listlessly shifting and staring up at the clouds like his mind was far, far away. He had struck her as a peculiar man. Seeing as to how his son behaved in class, she had to wonder if Shikadai’s troubles were rooted in his home situation.

“I imagine that serving as the Hokage’s advisor keeps him very busy,” she pressed gently. She stared intently at the boy to measure his reaction. A tendon in his neck tensed as he turned his face away from her, preventing her from fully reading his expression- almost like he sensed her express interest. _He is a ninja-in-training, after all, and a certified genius at that,_ she thought with an internal sigh. When he applied himself, Shikadai was brilliant in every sense of the word; he was just stricken with insufferable laziness.

“Yeah,” he answered simply. His voice was blank, monotone, empty. Ayumi stared at him with knitted eyebrows. Why would a son not be proud that his father held such a prestigious position? Then again, she knew that Boruto, son of the Seventh, was plagued with incredible loneliness due to his father’s work. _I’m sure Shikadai suffers similarly… Such positions require long hours and much sacrifice. Sometimes the children are pushed to the wayside accidentally._ “That’s not the problem, though,” Shikadai continued with a bitter mutter. “He makes himself busy because he can’t stand to look at me.” Ayumi’s eyes widened as he angrily kicked a clump of mud to send it sailing through the air and splashing into the wet street a few yards ahead. His expression was scrunched up in incredible pain and anger, a frightening look that Ayumi had never seen on the face of a child.

“Shikadai? Would you like to talk? I’m here for you,” she offered earnestly. She had struggled for a while on how to approach the young boy about his troubles. This was as good an opportunity as she was going to get for the boy to open up. He glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes. A mixture of fear and hope swirled within the baby-blue irises.

The fear won out, evidently.

“No,” he said firmly. He hunched up his shoulders to his ears and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets with a gruff huff. “And if you keep pesterin’ me about it-“

“I won’t make you talk,” she reassured him softly, brushing off the disrespectful tone of his voice in favor of his apparent emotional distress. He looked up at her in shock, and she straightened up to look out into the whirling rain. “Everybody has their demons. If you don’t want to talk, pressing you certainly won’t improve matters. If you’d like to open up about it in due time, that’s your decision. I’m just letting you know that I’ll listen if you ever want me to,” she explained simply. Ayumi knew very well that forcing children to talk wasn’t productive. It was better to allow them to approach her of their own volition. Shikadai was quiet for a minute.

“… I thought you were gonna lecture me for sleeping in class,” Shikadai said lightly under his breath as he looked down at his feet, watching the mud paint abstract patterns over the toes of his boots.

“I am!” she huffed haughtily and puffed out her cheeks. Shikadai cried out in alarm and his steps stuttered, prompting her to laugh so he would realize it was only in jest. “Relax. I’m joking, mostly. I understand your situation, whatever it is, isn’t easy on you. I can’t just let you sleep in my class whenever you like, but I’m not going to jump down your throat about it either.” The tension eased out of his rigid body as he sighed deeply in relief. A faint blush appeared on his cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I don’t _mean_ to…” he muttered. Before he could finish, the wind suddenly picked up with shrieking fervor. Ayumi shrieked in alarm as it gusted underneath the umbrella, wrenching it out of her hands to send it tumbling through the air and bouncing down the road. She held a hand over her brow to keep the pounding rain out of her eyes, the big raindrops raining down on her and Shikadai like bullets. The storm had worsened almost instantly, with lightning blasting and thunder booming in an angry black-gray mass of clouds. The wind danced around them in a frenzy, plucking at their clothes in a nasty effort to rip them to shreds all while dousing them head-to-toe in water. Over the tempest, she could barely discern Shikadai suck in a sharp breath; soon after that, she felt his fingers digging into her waist and lower back as he latched onto her body. His eyes were so wide that his blue irises swam in a sea of stark white.

“This way!” she said and tugged him out of the flooding street, underneath the flapping awning of a café. A little bell rang to signal their hasty arrival as she all but dragged him inside. They stood there for a minute, rainwater running in rivulets down their bodies to pool around their feet and soak into the thick welcome mat over the tile. Ayumi exhaled deeply and pulled a drenched section of her hair from her face at it slicked there, having been tossed about by the wind.

“Miss Ayumi…” Shikadai mumbled next to her. She glanced down to see him eyeing her summer green dress guiltily. “It’s ruined…” She inspected the cloth to find ugly mud spatters arcing over the fabric as his as her midline. She laughed dismissively and grabbed the hem of the dress to begin wringing excess water from the drenched fabric.

“It’s nothing. It would have happened on my way home regardless, I’m sure,” she laughed mirthfully. “Besides, what’s more refreshing than a little jaunt in the rain, hmm?” she said, smiling at him while still stooped over. He blinked before looking at her shoulder bag in concern. After she nodded in permission, she flipped open the flap to inspect the contents. “Is the drawing all right?” He nodded with a relieved look before snapping the bag back shut. “Well, then, no harm done!” she grinned as she straightened back up to comb her fingers through her messy hair. She was well aware that he was looking up at her in mild awe.

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Not at all. Sometimes these things happen and there is little we can do about it. We just have to face them and keep moving,” Ayumi responded simply. Shikadai sucked in a small breath and looked down at his feet. Her eyes narrowed slightly; clearly, the words resonated with him in some way. “At any rate,” she sighed after releasing as much water as she could from her clothes, “we won’t make it very far with that storm raging outside and no umbrella, so we best stay in here until it settles down.”

“That’s fine. Not like I’ll be missed,” Shikadai hissed through clenched teeth. Ayumi’s heart twinged in pain. It hurt her for the boy to speak so openly ill about his father. _This rift is deep,_ she thought as she placed a guiding hand on his back to guide him up to the counter. She ordered two hot teas, as the chill from the rain was already beginning to settle into her skin, making goosepimples rise all over and setting a slight shiver into her. She saw Shikadai root around in his pockets before producing a few crumpled bills. “Don’t worry about it,” she refused as he went to hand them to her. “It’s my treat today.”

“Okay,” he frowned before shoving them back into his pockets and busying himself with the contents of the pastry display case in front of them. Ayumi watched him curiously, and so the way his blue eyes fixated on a small chocolate concoction was not missed by her. His little jaw set into a harsh ridge, and a vein bulged in his neck as he stared at it with an almost frightening intensity.

“Anything else?” the cashier asked her as he handed over the teas.

“One of those,” she responded and pointed at the pastry Shikadai was eyeing. He looked up at her in awe but said nothing as the cashier produced one from the display case and handed it over to him. Shikadai took it, staring owlishly as he held it with all the care of holding a baby bird. Wordlessly, he followed Ayumi as she walked over to a booth and sat down. He slipped into the other side and set the cake down, continuing to eye it with both hunger and disgust as he silently sipped at the hot beverage she had purchased for him. His morbid fascination with the pastry confused Ayumi. “Did you not want it?” she asked after he had stared at it for at least three minutes without making a move to consume it.

“No… I mean, yes, but…” Shikadai said thickly. Ayumi’s eyebrows arched as she spotted the glimmer of what she thought to be tears bubbling up in his eyes, but he quickly sniffed and ran the sleeve of his shirt over his face, mumbling about rain in his eyes. “Thanks, Miss Ayumi,” he said before finally picking it up and biting down on it. His eyes met hers for a second, and her heart lurched at the way his gaze was shaking. He slowly bit through the bready material and chewed on it before whispering, the half-chewed food stuffed in his cheek, “… My mom used to buy these for me.”

Ayumi was not sure what to do with that information. He refused to provide any more, turning stiffly to stare at the rain cascading down the window beside them. Her expression was pained as she watched his tense jaw slowly work at the pastry, her mind whirling not unlike the raging storm outside. _“Used to”…? What does he mean? Are they divorced? Is that why he resents his father? Surely, Shikadai is old enough to live with his mother if he so chose… Did she abandon them, then? Or perhaps…_ Her mind dissolved into a sickening possibility. His father was a ninja, so the chance his mother was as well was not unlikely. Even after the conclusion of the Great Ninja War, danger still abounded. Ninjas risked their lives with every mission, and sometimes, they did not beat the odds. She observed Shikadai’s face as he slowly ate the pastry, but it was now hard stone- unreadable.

“Anyway,” he said after a long period of quiet, “I don’t mean to fall asleep in class. I just find history such a drag,” he admitted, finally looking back at Ayumi to rub the side of his neck awkwardly. He seemed as if he expected her to be angry, but she smiled in amusement. “That’s funny?” he asked in shock.

“A little. I mean, I guess I get what you mean. ‘Why should I care about what a bunch of old men did way back when?’, am I right?” The way the color drained from his face and his scared frown indicated she hit the nail right on the head. It made her laugh. With a small exhale, she reclined back in the booth while looking off distantly. Her thumbs traced abstract patterns into the ceramic glass in her hand.

“We always like to look toward the future. ‘When I grow up, I want to do this.’ ‘What will my life be like in ten years?’ ‘If I do this now, it will pay off then,’” she smiled. “People don’t realize, though, that the past very much determines our futures. Things that happened one hundred years ago still affect us to this day. For example, if the First Hokage had not established this village, you and I could not be sitting here enjoying these teas. For instance, we could be involved in a very bloody conflict fighting for our lives with no idea of the comforts of enjoying a tea,” she explained, brown eyes glancing back to him and sparkling. He was listening to her with slight rapture, mouth hanging open a little. “Everything is connected in a great string of events working into one another. There is far more to the things we do than we realize. Every small action has the potential to have far-reaching effects.”

“Does that mean no matter what we do, things are gonna turn out the way they will?” He asked her quietly. The hopeless edge to his voice made her reach across the table to pat the top of his head gently.

“Of course not. It’s the fact that every small action _has_ such potential that allows us to mold our fates as we see fit. You always have the power to change things, Shikadai, no matter how hopeless it seems. It may take a while, and you may not be able to see the effects so clearly, but little by little, those small actions build up to make a great wave of change.” As she retracted her hand, he looked down at the crumbs of pastry littering the table thoughtfully. He then smiled slightly.

“Heh. Sounds like a lotta work. What a drag- but I think I get it. It certainly makes history sound a little more interesting.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the time that it took him to eat and the both of them to finish their drinks, the rain finally settled down into a small sprinkle. It was certainly light enough for them to walk the remaining distance to the Hokage’s residence without growing too uncomfortable. Ayumi was thankful that the boy’s mood seemed to have brightened; his shoulders were no longer hunched, and he had a tiny smile on his face. He was also much keener on making small talk with her. Just as they arrived at the Hokage’s office building, Ayumi saw the glass doors open. A tall, dark-haired man sauntered out, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What a drag… At least it’s not raining anymore,” Ayumi could hear him grumbling under his breath. He suddenly looked up, and Ayumi was electrified as his dark eyes locked on her. They were empty pits, weary, dull and devoid of light. It was so striking in such the wrong way that it had her heart clenching in her chest in empathy, though she knew not what for. His thinly-veiled haggard look was one hundred times worse than any look she had ever seen on Shikadai’s face.

“… Shikadai,” he called after a few seconds of gazing at her, his gaze finally sliding down to the boy at her side. Ayumi’s head snapped down to see all traces of relative happiness had drained from the boy. Slouching as he glared slightly at the man, Shikadai’s expression was clearly both hurt and angry. Wordlessly, he flung her pack open to yank out the drawing and stomp over, shouldering right past his father to stalk into the building. Ayumi watched with a wavering expression as the man sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. “I hope he hasn’t been a bother,” the man said as he strolled over. It took Ayumi a minute to realized he had even moved and spoken.

“O-oh!” she cried when her wits returned to her. “No, not at all. It was raining cats and dogs there for a minute. I couldn’t let him trek all the way here in such a storm,” she responded quickly, then flushed when she realized she had been remiss in introducing herself. Quickly, she bowed to him. “My name is Ayumi Tachibana! I’m Shikadai’s history teacher. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Shikamaru Nara,” he responded. His voice was deep, gravelly, polite, but laced with disinterest. She wondered if he just sounded like that or if she was bothering him. Shy, she peered up at him through her lashes.

“I apologize if I’m interrupting you during an important errand… I just wanted to introduce myself.”

“It’s fine,” he answered dismissively. As Ayumi straightened up, she noticed he had the same habit as Shikadai of shoving his hands in his pockets. They looked nearly identical, too, aside from Shikadai’s bright blue eyes. _He must have his mother’s eyes._ She thought then to Shikadai’s off-handed comments. _Is that why he can’t stand to look at him?_ She wondered. She then realized he had been gazing critically at her while she all but stared, and she flushed.

“P-pardon me. I-I was just thinking, there’s a resemblance between the two of you,” she laughed bashfully. She saw the hint of a smile appear on his lips, but it was a far cry from genuine amusement- more like the shadow of what he used to feel long ago.

“He’s _too_ much like me, I’m sure. Falling asleep in class on the regular, no doubt.” Ayumi had to laugh at how easily he had pinpointed his son’s quirk.

“Yes,” she admitted, but to save Shikadai a scolding, she added, “but we had a meaningful talk on the way here. He’s a gifted boy, really; I just think he needs the right motivation.”

“Yeah,” Shikamaru said. She grew puzzled as a dark shadow fell over his face. Suddenly, she became aware of the raindrops falling with more rhythm. She glanced up to see a parade of them beginning to rain down from the dark clouds once more. Hastily, she covered her head with the flat of her hand, as if that would do anything.

“Ah, um, it was very nice to meet you, but I should get going before the weather worsens! Thank you!” she stammered and went to whirl on her heel to hurry back down the water-sodden street.

“Hey, Ayumi, wait.” She gulped loudly with a slight squeak. She wasn’t quite sure why him using her name made her heart skip a beat, but it did. Timidly, she peeked over her shoulder to find him shrugging out of his tan coat.

“I-I, um, you don-t-!” she tried to sputter out, but all words died in her throat as he stepped forward to drape the coat over her shoulders gently. She tugged up the collar of it to hide her tomato-red face. “I-I don’t understand…”

“It’s water-resistant. You walked my kid home, so it’s the least I can do,” he shrugged it off casually. “Just send it home with him tomorrow.” Her gaze followed him meekly as he walked around her to start trudging down the street, giving her a simple wave in farewell. Heart hammering in her chest nearly to the point of bursting, she wrapped the cloak around herself, feeling his lingering body heat stave off the chill of the rain that had long since seeped into her clothes. She continued to stand there in front of the building. She stared at the spot where he had turned the corner, unsure of what had just happened.

She had no idea that in that moment, destiny had tied a knot between their strings of fate, inevitably locking the two together in a tumultuous tale.

~~~~~~~~~~

No sooner had Shikamaru turned the corner did he regret what he had just done. _What a drag! What was I thinking, giving a woman I barely know my coat like that? And now I’m cold!_ He thought as he pulled at his hair with a long groan. He slumped against the wet brick wall, trying to ignore the slimy feeling of the water trapped between the hard surface and his clothes. He ran a hand over his face to pinch the bridge of his nose as a dull headache began to throb in his temple. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ Scowling at his idiocy, he peeked around the corner of the building to see her still standing there in the rain, spell-struck. His frown relaxed as he watched her.

He wasn’t sure what had possessed him. In that second of lunacy, it just… felt like what he needed to do. It wasn’t because he thought Ayumi was pretty, even with her chestnut hair twisted and disarrayed from the wind and rain. It wasn’t because her eyes shone with more light than he had seen in a long time. It wasn’t because, for the briefest of seconds, he had caught Shikadai smiling for the first time in an entire year as he walked contentedly alongside her. No. Shikamaru wasn’t sure why. He didn’t know.

Nor did he know that the simple action would set off a cascade of events he could never have imagined, fraught with drama and peril. For in that moment, destiny had tied a knot between their strings of fate, inevitably locking the two together in a tumultuous tale.

Because the night is always darkest before the dawn… and daffodils always bloom after winter.


	4. Last Shred of Hope

_Flick. Roooooll. Flick. Roooooooll._ The softwood of the pencil rattled as it trundled over the smooth surface of the slightly sloped school desk back to Shikadai’s finger, which promptly flicked it back up in a repetitive circuit. For once, his blue eyes were not tracing the writing utensil’s continuous path up and down the desk; they focused on the brunette woman animatedly recounting one of the significant battles of the Second Great Ninja War. While it would generally be an exercise to do anything but pay attention, Shikadai’s continuous ministrations with the pencil were now a genuine effort to keep his focus locked on Ayumi’s lecture. She seemed so sincerely passionate about it, and their discussion the previous day _did_ convince him that history wasn’t entirely a drag. Still, listening to any teacher drone on and on was a _major_ drag, so here he was, desperately trying to keep his squirrel brain from going off on a useless tangent.

“Now, does anyone have any idea of why the enemy lost this battle, though they had vastly superior numbers?” Ayumi asked suddenly, lowering her history book to look expectantly at the class. The particular battle which she was referring to was well-known. It involved a platoon of Leaf shinobi that had been surrounded in a fort by the enemy, outnumbered nearly one hundred to one. For six days, the enemy bombarded the Leaf stronghold but were unable to overtake the compound successfully, and on the sixth day, reinforcements arrived and nearly eradicated the enemy forces. Not a single person within the fort lost their lives. There was even a monument erected at the now-abandoned fort. Shikadai’s father had taken him to visit it once. He sure didn’t appreciate it at the time; he had no interest in dusty, half-collapsed buildings.

“Yes, Sarada?” Ayumi quipped as the bespectacled girl raised her hand.

“Well, obviously it was because of the shinobi’s strategic position,” she explained matter-of-factly as she pushed her bright glasses up the bridge of her nose. “The fort was located in a glade with high slopes on either side, so the enemy could only pin them from in front and behind. Though the supply chain was effectively cut off, the fort had stockpiled enough provisions to withstand a siege. Naturally, the fort was well-constructed and outfitted with high walls and turrets that made outright bombardment difficult. Of course, if the single shinobi who was able to escape and deliver a message to the nearby allied shinobi encampment were caught and killed, every single one of the shinobi would likely have perished, and the war could have ended very differently. That particular fort was located along a major supply line and entrance into the Land of Fire.” After her sermon, Sarada waited patiently for Ayumi to confirm. It could be annoying how much Sarada knew, but at least she wasn’t cocky about it, Shikadai reasoned.

“So, you’re saying the shinobi were lucky?” Ayumi’s pointed inquiry made Sarada blush and wriggle around in her seat.

“I-I suppose. There were many pros and cons to their situation.”

“Don’t look so alarmed, Sarada. You’re right; the fort happened to be well-provisioned and located strategically to make invasion difficult,” Ayumi reassured her with a small smile, then snapped the book shut and set it down on her desk with an air of confidence that had Shikadai enraptured. “That would be a proper response, based on the words etched in that book there. However, the point of this entire lesson is that there are always things left out of history books. They are meant to be factual, impersonal- and reality is not the case, is it? There were real people there, at that fort, fighting for their lives.” Clasping her hands behind her back, she leaned against the edge of her desk, glittering brown eyes sweeping across the room as a slightly sad smile curled on her pretty pink lips. “In truth, the reason that the enemy lost that battle is nothing more than sheer human _tenacity_.”

“I don’t get it,” Boruto groaned. Shikadai was too enthralled by the unquestionable air of regal authority surrounding the teacher even to bother rolling his eyes. Is this what she meant when she was talking to him yesterday?

“Plain and simple, they didn’t want to _die_ , Boruto. Rather than give up and surrender, knowing they would either be slaughtered on sight or left to rot in prisoner-of-war camps, the men and women of that fort decided to spend every minute of those six days fighting fiercely for their lives.” A collective ripple of awe traveled across the classroom. “A single shinobi elected to face the impossible odds and run headlong into an army, with only a slim chance of survival. Why do you think that is?” The air rang with confused silence. “Hope!” she said, clapping her hands together. “Hope. They had _hope_ , and hope is the most powerful driver of amazing feats that there is. Human beings will perform the impossible simply because they cannot abandon their sliver of hope. Those men survived because they were willing to fight for the hope of one tomorrow, and another, and another.”

 _Hope. Tomorrow._ Shikadai felt the words stirring in his chest. He could not help but think of the haunted tomorrows of himself and his father, plagued by the death that still loomed over them. Was there hope for his broken family? Should he keep fighting, even though drawing the both of them out of their depressive realities was next to impossible? Shikadai felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as Ayumi smiled directly at him. “I want you all to remember that. There are things that you will face in this life that will seem next to impossible. You’ll want to give up- but remember, with just a tiny bit of hope, you can overcome that impossible. Now, class dismissed~” The cheerfulness in her voice was a stark contrast to the starstruck aura of admiration that was hanging over the class of young ninja. Ayumi was seemingly oblivious as she gathered her papers and books into her bag, chirping farewells as her young protégés filed out of the classroom.

Shikadai glanced out of the window. The sky was not darkened with rainclouds, but brilliantly blue, with a shining sun and a few fluffy white clouds. Certainly, he had nothing restricting him from walking home this day- walking home, alone, to an empty house where hope had long since been absent. He swallowed thickly as he wiped at his stinging eyes with his jacket sleeve.

How the hell was Shikadai supposed to have hope in this absolute drag of a situation?

Hit footsteps were heavy as he tromped down the stairs and up to Ayumi’s desk. “Oh, hello, Shikadai. I have a favor to ask. Would you deliver this to your father, please?” the teacher quipped as she procured his father’s tan coat, neatly folded and freshly washed. “He lent it to me yesterday to stave off the rain,” she explained. Shikadai stared at it. For some reason, he was overtaken with the insane urge to snatch it and tear it into little bitty shreds of fabric. He swallowed down the violent craving and turned his bright blue eyes up to her patient and happy face.

“Actually, Miss Ayumi… I was wondering if I could hang out with you today.”

“Oh,” she blinked, hand retracting to pull the coat back to her body.

“S’just, you know, it’s not like anybody is waiting at home for me. Sitting there by myself is a real drag, so I was wonderin’ if I could help ya with anything,” he continued quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure why he was pestering her with his dismal life. It wasn’t any of her business, but… she looked like she _cared_. Her eyebrows knitted together, lips slightly pursed, warm brown eyes swimming with all sorts of emotions, muscles tensing as if she might draw him into a loving and warm embrace… Maybe that’s why, because for the first time in a year, Shikadai felt like someone really _gave_ a damn. He felt his bottom lip wobbling as he all but begged the woman for attention. It’s not like he had much pride these days. He would give anything, _do_ anything, just to get some semblance of a normal life back… Even if he had to get that from his teacher. Pathetic, really.

“Of course you can,” she smiled, placing the folded-up coat on the edge of her desk before giving him a reassuring pat to the top of his head. Shikadai shamelessly relished the way her manicured fingers tousled into his black hair. His mother used to pat him on the head like that. He also shamelessly resented it when she withdrew her hand, silently begging her to keep on for a minute, or two, or ten, or _forever_. “I was going to head to the library for some private research. You’re welcome to come along.”

So that’s how Shikadai found himself at a table in Konoha Public Library, feet kicked up on the table balancing the chair on two legs as his keen blue eyes watched Ayumi pore over history books in nothing less of pure rapture.

“What do you do research for?” he asked. They had been there about thirty minutes in complete silence, and Shikadai was about to go insane. Ayumi looked at him with a smile; it didn’t look like she minded his nuisance.

“Well, in addition to teaching, I study archaeology and history academically. I write academic papers,” Ayumi explained as she sat up and pushed away the book that she was reading to give him her undivided attention. He appreciated that. It made him feel less like he was bothering her.

“Really?” Shikadai’s eyebrows inched up his forehead. He didn’t know much about academic writing, but the fact that Ayumi was published surely was a big deal. He knew that a lot of bigwigs in ninja society referred to studies and such for various things.

“That’s right!” she laughed shyly, rubbing at her cheek with an index finger as she grew embarrassed. “A lot of my research deals with the intricacies of war- namely, the people. Like I said today, most of history is so impersonal... I like to breathe life into it, to remind people that war is not just dates and battles. There are people there, people who have suffered.” _That explains her speech today,_ he thought. He cringed internally at the twisting inside his chest, recalling the concept of hope. Ayumi smiled as she looked at the words inked onto the paper before her. “I like to think my work is important. I hope that my work can remind people why history is vital to keep more people from suffering the atrocities of the past because they can see the effects it’s had on people- not just dates and facts and cause and effect.”

“I think that’s important.”

“You’re just saying that to get in my good graces, Shikadai,” she teased. Shikadai flushed and pushed the chair down onto all fours, slamming his palms down on the table in adamance.

“No! I mean it, Miss Ayumi!” Shikadai didn’t like conflict. Conflict was the reason his father had nightmares about the people he had lost. Conflict was the reason his mother was dead. Conflict was the reason that his father buried himself in his work and neglected him. Conflict made people suffer, and Shikadai didn’t want anyone to suffer like he was suffering now. He bit hard down on his lip as the tears threatened to spill over his eyes again. “I _mean_ it,” he whimpered in a small voice. If Ayumi’s work could show people how ugly it all was, why _wouldn’t_ it be necessary? Ayumi stared at him, wide-eyed as he struggled to keep his composure. The legs of her chair squeaked against the hard floor as she dragged it over to wrap her arms around him and pull his head into her chest, and that’s when he broke down, crying softly into her dress.

“Oh, Shikadai,” she said while tenderly rubbing his back,

“I mean it,” he choked out with a heaving sob. He was trying not to break into full-on bawling because this was a library, and he didn’t want to attract any undue attention. “They all just swept it under the rug,” he sniffled as he buried his face as far as he could into Ayumi’s welcoming embrace. “It’s just a date now, something that happened as part of a conflict, a _statistic_ … But not to us. _Not to **us**_.” Ayumi had no idea what he was talking about. Still, she held him anyway, gently rocking him back and forth as she whispered hopeful words to him- hopeful words that Shikadai _so_ desperately wanted to have faith in.

~~~~~~~~~~

The house was dark when Shikadai entered, his father’s tan coat tucked snugly under his arm. He had ended up staying at the library with Ayumi until after sundown. Languidly, he slid out of his shoes and walked in his socks across the house into the living room. That was the only source of light in the entire abode, a small lamp casting dull yellow light and throwing ominous shadows onto the walks. The sliding door to the backyard porch was open, and there he sat, fist tucked under his chin as he stared lifelessly at a shogi board. The moonlight, combined with the yellow light of the lamp, drew stark lines of shadow into his face, making him seem twenty years older than he was.

“Father,” Shikadai called softly as he approached, standing a few feet away by the loveseat holding his coat. “I’m home.”

“Where were you?” he grunted. Shikadai bit down on his lips angrily, wanting to scream that if he cared to know, he should’ve come looking for him instead of playing shogi by himself like an insane man.

“With Miss Ayumi. We went to the library.” All he got was a disinterested grunt in response. There was a light clack as his father moved a piece on the shogi board. “I brought your coat home. Ayumi-sensei washed it for you.” Another grunt, another piece clacked. Shikadai set the coat down on the arm of the loveseat. His father’s expression never changed- eyes lidded and accentuated by dark bags, frown etched into his face, those dark shadows making him seem a creature ominous and possessed.

 _With hope, you can overcome the impossible,_ he thought of Ayumi’s words. He wanted to believe that. He really wanted to, but it was so, so, so hard when his father wouldn’t even look at him. No smiles, no “welcome home’s,” no embraces- just grunts and indifference. He looked at the coffee table to see a half-drunk cup of coffee and a leather-bound tome that seemed to be the personal record of a soldier in the Fourth Great Ninja War. “What’s this?” he asked, picking up the book to inspect the back cover.

“Ino recommended it to me,” his father remarked casually. Another clack of a moving tile. “She kept harassing me about it, so I borrowed it from the library just to appease her.” Shikadai’s mouth twitched in anger. Did he have to treat everyone so callously? Ino was one of his self-proclaimed best friends, or at least she had been, before. Shikadai slid the book behind his back, holding it there as he stared hard at the man. “Don’t you have homework to do?”

“Not tonight. I thought, maybe… We could play shogi, like we used to.”

He knew he made a mistake when his father’s shoulders grew incredibly taut. He could see the harsh edge of his jawline even from within the house, sharper than any kunai knife. Shikadai edged backward, still holding the autobiography in his shaking hands. Always, some stupid part of him wanted to hang on to hope. _Say yes,_ he begged silently as his eyes flooded with tears. _Say yes. Notice me. Pay attention to me. Love me. Like you used to. I miss you, Dad, I miss you so damn much-_

“Not tonight, Shikadai.” His voice was as much of a ghost as he was. Like it had suddenly offended him, Shikamaru pushed away the shogi board and laid down on his side, back to his son. “Not tonight.”

Shikadai wanted to scream. He wanted to stamp his feet and bawl and scream and punch him in his stupid face, but he knew that wouldn’t do any good. His father was a ghost, Shikadai was a ghost; they were just two ghosts haunting the same space trying to make sense of a tragedy that didn’t make any sense at all.

“Okay,” Shikadai forced out. He turned on his feet, bringing the book to his front as he did so, not that his father was paying enough attention to see him running off with it. He scampered off to his bedroom. He wondered, distantly, if his father came after him, he would see the teardrops on the floor. Probably not, because he wasn’t going to come after him. He was just going to lay there and mope like he did every night, staring at the moon like it would give him answers. Shikadai wondered if there even were answers anywhere. He had spent a good long time looking and hadn’t found any yet. Crying, he slammed his bedroom door shut behind him, hugging the book to his chest as his body became wracked with sobs.

 _Sometimes these things happen, and there is little we can do about it. We just have to face them and keep moving._ Ayumi had said that. Shikadai wanted to follow her advice, but why was it so damn hard? Through his watery eyes, he looked down at the novel cradled in his hands. It sure seemed like a book she would like. If his father didn’t care to read it, well, she should. She would appreciate it. It seemed like his father didn’t appreciate anything these days, and Shikadai was running out of hope that he would.

“I wanna have hope… _I wanna have hope_ ,” he wheezed as he curled up into a ball around the book.

~~~~~~~~~~

Shikadai came out of his room later that night to find his father passed out on the porch. The shogi board was still set up in a half-finished game, so Shikadai quickly disassembled it and put it in its proper place. He grabbed a blanket off the back of the couch and walked back onto the porch to drape it over his father’s sleeping form. It would be a drag for him to catch a cold. As Shikadai was securing it around his father’s broad shoulders, he caught a glint of light from within his father’s crossed arms. The moonlight was catching on something. Gingerly, he groped around until his fingers hit the hard edge of something. Slowly, carefully, he eased the object out to look at it.

It was a framed picture of a woman, with blonde hair in a fluffy up-do, smiling wide as she held a little swaddled Shikadai in her arms. His father was standing over her shoulder, smiling too- in fact, it looked like he might even cry a little.

A small droplet of water splashed down onto the glass, then another and another. Shikadai sniffled as he angrily wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, hard enough to rub the delicate skin raw. _Stop crying. That’s all you can do is cry,_ he scolded himself. Once he had managed to reign in his emotions, he gently wiped the water off the glass before carrying the photograph back inside and setting it back onto the small end table, where a glass of water and a vase with a few white flowers was situated. He kneeled in front of it, putting his hands together in prayer and closing his eyes with shaking lips.

 _Mom… I have hope. I do. I do, I do, **I do** , _he repeated fervently, as if it would make it more true. He had to have hope. He had to, because if he didn’t, what else did he have? _Please, Mom… I can’t take it anymore. Something’s gotta give. Please, I beg of you…_

_You gotta save Dad, somehow._

The picture stared silently back at him as he opened his eyes. His mother smiled at him warmly, and for a second, he almost felt like she was there in that photograph, hearing his desperate pleas. As he stared dimly at the picture, on his very last shred of hope, he was reminded of the way Ayumi looked at him, the way she held him, and told him that everything was going to be all right.

And in an insane part of his mind, he distantly wondered if his broken family was already on the path to salvation, looking at the tan coat still sitting on the armrest of the loveseat.

_Little by little, those small actions build up to make a great wave of change._


	5. Just Like Mother

Shikadai grimaced at the very obvious book-shaped lump in the front of his shirt, prodding it a few times with his finger. His gaze then drifted up to the school building entrance only a few yards away, where his classmates were filing in for the day’s series of lectures. 

When he had swiped the novel from right under his father’s nose, thinking that Ayumi would appreciate its value much more than his depressed parent, he hadn’t thought of how to deliver it without being inconspicuous. Everyone knew damn well that Shikadai didn’t like to read, so they would pester him with questions as soon as he walked in with it tucked under his arm. He had forgotten his schoolbag, naturally, so he didn’t even have anywhere decent to hide it until the school day was over. 

He looked down at the lump in his clothes with vexation. 

_ I guess there’s nothing for it. I just have to get to my desk and then slip it under the seat; no one will notice it there.  _ Shikadai crossed his arms over his belly to hide the bump in his shirt before quickly scampering into the building. 

The hardback chafed at the waistband of his pants as he hurried towards the classroom. It certainly wasn’t a comfortable way to carry the accursed thing. As he opened the door, the book slipped within the confines of his clothes, its spine peeking out from underneath the hem. He wriggled disconcertedly at the foreign feeling and pawed at his belly, trying to right it without looking obvious, as he scurried to his desk. Every shift of the book made his skin crawl like he was covered in ants. 

A few students gave him odd looks as he mounted the stairs; his discomfort showed on his face in the form of a screwed-up frown. He all but yanked the book out of his shirt and threw it under his chair when he got to his desk. A sigh of relief breezed past his lips as a sense of equilibrium returned to him. 

_ No one’ll notice it there…  _

“What’s that, Shikadai?” If he were a cat, his hackles would’ve been sent to bristling as he heard Sarada innocently ask that over his shoulder. He whirled on his foot, heel kicking the book a little further under the desk as he laughed nervously at her. 

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She tilted her head with a doubtful pucker of her lips and a raised eyebrow. Her eyes flickered down to the base of the desk, where the book was clumsily tucked, before looking back at him. 

“What did you just take out of your shirt, Shikadai?” 

“Nothing!” he insisted, but the reddening of his cheeks was a clear giveaway. He silently cursed his body and its autonomous responses as Sarada continued to eye him critically. 

By this time, her inquisition had attracted the attention of Shikadai’s playmates, Inojin and Chocho, as well as Boruto, who Shikadai knew would have the whole class interviewing him with that loud mouth of his. Shikadai’s teeth bared in a harsh scowl as the blond-haired boy piped up behind Sarada, “Ooh, you got a secret, Shikadai?” 

“No! No, I don’t!” 

“He hid something under his chair. I saw it,” Sarada asserted with a point of her finger. Boruto, of course, then made to flip the chair up. Shikadai plopped himself down in it, using his body weight to keep the chair down and thus shield the book from their prying eyes. 

“What the hell are you all nagging me for? I told ya there’s nothin’, so stop pestering me!” he demanded noisily. Sarada and Boruto definitely looked like they would refuse to let the matter rest, but thankfully for Shikadai, Inojin put placating hands on their shoulders. 

“Look, class is about to begin. We can settle this later,” Inojin smiled charmingly. Boruto snorted and tried to sneak one last peek under the chair, but Shikadai planted his feet so that the book remained hidden. The blond then muttered something about Shikadai being a weirdo before stomping off to his seat, yelling for Sarada to do so as well. The kunoichi-in-training pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and her dark eyes locked with Shikadai’s; the glitter in them made him gulp loudly. 

“I’m not sure what you’re so hell-bent on hiding, but rest assured that I’m not letting the matter rest!” she huffed before haughtily spinning around to join Boruto. Shikadai exhaled a deep sigh of relief once the two noisy thorns finally removed themselves from his backside. 

“Thanks for getting them off my back, Inojin,” he smiled gratefully to his friend. Inojin shrugged before looking at Chocho, who was finishing off her mid-morning bag of potato chips. 

“It’s all right. I don’t much care if you’re hiding something,” Inojin laughed lightheartedly, but his blank face made it almost seem threatening. Shikadai chuckled tensely in response. “Do you, Chocho?” 

“Nah. He knows well enough he can’t keep it hidden, so I’ll just wait until Boruto and Sarada drag it out of him,” she shrugged in disinterest while licking the spice dust from her fingers. Shikadai’s shoulders sagged, her complete lack of regard for his feelings throwing an invisible weight on his already heavy shoulders. 

“ _ Thanks _ , guys…” 

~~~~~~~~~~

The day went on without much more ado. Shikadai kept the novel pinned between the insides of his feet as he sat slumped over his desk, struggling— as usual— to listen to the droning of the teachers. They cycled in and out with Shikadai retaining almost nothing. The end of the day drew near, and their last teacher of the day, Ayumi, strolled in. 

Once a week, she and another professor switched blocks to have shuriken practice as their last lesson for the day. Upon her arrival, Shikadai perked up a little, sitting up as she took up a piece of chalk and scrawled the date they would be studying that class. She always started with the date before going into whatever important event they would be delving into. Shikadai had learned that once he actually began paying attention. 

The sound of giggles floating on the stale classroom air caught his attention. He leaned back in his seat to peer across the way to find Boruto grinning mischievously, concentrating on something in front of him. After a second of spying on him, Shikadai discovered that he was folding a paper airplane. 

_ Oh, good grief. How cliché,  _ the boy thought with a roll of his eyes. Boruto finished his light-weight craft before eyeing Ayumi like a hawk, waiting for the opportune moment. After a minute or so of talking animatedly, Ayumi turned back to the blackboard to scribble a few critical notes underneath the date. 

That’s when Boruto struck. 

He jumped up silently, hefting his arm back over his shoulder before throwing the papercraft with much force. It sailed over the heads of their classmates— many of whom were snickering with anticipation— and coasted the empty air making a bee-line for the back of Ayumi’s head.

Shikadai was caught between not caring and wanting to warn the woman of the incoming projectile. 

Boruto’s eyes alighted with glee, for it seemed like the pointed end of the paper airplane was about to hit its mark, and Shikadai opened his mouth to yell down at her. However, before his vocal cords could produce any sound, Ayumi whirled on her heel to snatch the paper airplane in a fist, crumpling it up. Boruto’s mouth fell open in shock as he was all but caught red-handed, still standing with his fists balled up in eagerness. 

“If you wanted to ask me a question, Boruto, you need but ask it,” Ayumi sniffed primly as she regarded the now-misshapen paper airplane with disdain. She smoothed out the creases before setting it on the edge of her desk, like some kind of twisted trophy. “Is there something I can explain for you?” Boruto’s cheeks flushed pink with shame before he hung his head. The class erupted into furious giggles at his complete humiliation. 

“No,” he grumbled quietly, lips pursing as his blue eyes peered up at her from between his blond lashes. “Actually, I  _ do _ got one. How the hell did you hear that paper airplane comin’ when you aren’t even a ninja?” he demanded hotly. 

Ayumi chuckled in amusement before crossing her arms, cocking her head to the side while regarding him with playful scorn. 

“I’ve only been retired three years, Boruto. I practice every day to keep my skills sharp in case of a catastrophe. So, I could hear that flimsy little plane whistling on the air the instant you threw it; I just have to have my fun, you know.” 

Boruto let out an “ _ urk _ !” as the class again resounded with tinny laughter. 

“I think you’ve disrupted my lecture enough for now. I’ll want to see a copy of your notes before you leave class today, and they’d better be good, or you’re staying behind during shuriken practice to listen to it again.” 

Boruto groaned miserably but obediently uttered a half-hearted “yes, ma’am” and slumping back down into his seat. 

“Now, where were we?” Ayumi frowned and resumed her lecture where he had left off. Shikadai smirked at the irony of the entire ordeal, chuckling quietly to himself.  _ She sure got him…  _

Shikadai once again found himself wondering about the woman’s retirement. It wasn’t often that ninja retired so young; if he had to guess, she was in her mid-twenties. She had no evidence of any disability caused by being injured in the line of duty, so he didn’t think that was why. He recalled his father explaining to someone once that many ninjas retired after the Great Ninja War due to mental health instabilities acquired due to the massive tragedy; could something like that be the root of her early retirement? 

Shikadai began rolling the pencil over his desk again as he pored over the conundrum. 

_ Just who exactly are you, Miss Ayumi?  _

The lecture went on without much more incident. After class was dismissed, the students had fifteen minutes to go to the storerooms and obtain the necessary ninja tools. Shikadai decided that the small intermission would be sufficient enough time to deliver the novel to his teacher. Well, that was the theory, at least. 

Shikadai released an affronted gasp as Boruto slid on his stomach across the wooden floor of the schoolroom to pluck the novel from right between his feet. Snickering triumphantly, he dodged Shikadai’s grasping hand and wriggled away, jumping to his feet at the end of the aisle to proudly display his captured trophy. 

“Hehe! So this is what you were so hell-bent on protecting, eh, Shikadai? It’s just a dusty old book!” he laughed in derision as he opened it and thumbed through the pages. “What is this crap? Since when do  _ you _ read?” 

“Asshole! Give that back!” Shikadai commanded. The chair scraped harshly across the wood as he jerked it back to spring at him. Boruto frowned and threw his arm up to hold it over their heads. Shikadai was just a tad bit shorter than him, and he screeched in frustration as his fingers could only uselessly brush against the leather binding. “Boruto! I mean it! It’s none of your goddamn business, okay?!” 

“Shikadai, what the hell is your problem? It’s just a dumb book! What? Is it so scandalous that you don’t want us to know? You got some dirty pictures or somethin’ hidden in the pages?” Shikdai’s face flushed red, and he fell on the flats of his feet to glare at him incredulously.

“What the-?  _ No _ ! It’s a present, okay? Now give it  _ back _ before I beat the hell outta you!” 

“Boruto, stop teasing him already,” Sarada groused as she stood up from her desk, crossing her arms primly. She looked the picture of a disapproving mother as she glowered at the blond. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” 

“Whaaaaaat? You’ve been talking the entire class about finding out what he was hidin’, Sarada! Don’t act like you’re not curious too!” Boruto complained with a sour glance at her over his shoulder. Her cheeks became dusted with a pink tinge, and she haughtily looked away, mumbling under her breath. 

Boruto looked back at Shikadai as he began jumping up to try and snatch away the book again. “I dunno why you’re actin’ like this. Just lemme look if you got nothin’ to hide! It’s from the library; it ain’t your personal diary or anythin’!” 

Shikadai knew, deep down, that there really was no harm in Boruto looking at the book. Fighting him so fiercely was more of a drag than anything. Yet his mind was absorbed with the overbearing notion that Boruto couldn’t look at the book, as if it would somehow taint the act of him giving it Ayumi. 

Because surely they would notice her carrying it around and reading it, and would know Shikadai gave it to her. He could give two shits about them thinking him a teacher’s or whatever. No, that wasn’t it. He just had this overwhelming need for it to be something secret, something sacred, something only the two of them knew. Something shared between only them, something she could brag about to other adults with an airy laugh like a mother would about her son giving her a homemade present. 

“ _ Give it back, Borutooooooo _ !” he yelled in an unholy screech and suddenly sprang on him. Boruto cried out as his rump connected roughly with the wooden floor, then let out a strangled yelp as Shikadai’s fist smashed into his jaw. The book dropped from his hands as he instinctively tried to shield his face, but even though Shikadai had gotten what he wanted, he didn’t stop. He kept punching him, screaming obscenities that would make an old lady faint. 

Because suddenly it wasn’t Boruto he was hitting. It was his father’s face, nose broken and spewing blood that coating his fist in a hot, sticky paste. Then it wasn’t a face at all, but the shifting shadow that haunted his nightmares, with grinning sharp teeth as it tore into his mother’s cold corpse. 

“I hate you! I  _ hate _ you!  _ I  _ **_hate_ ** _ you _ !” he roared over and over again as he grabbed Boruto by his face and smashed his head back against the wood with full intent on cracking his skull. Sarada was just watching him in disquieted horror, pale with her arms curled up at her body as if to place a shield between herself and the manic Shikadai. 

“Shikadai! Shikadai,  _ stop _ !” Inojin yelled and vaulted over the desk to grab him by the underside of his arms to haul him, kicking and screaming and sobbing, off of the barely-conscious Boruto. The blond let out a gurgling groan, blood bubbling in his mouth and pouring from his busted lips while feebly pushing himself to his feet, and Shikadai’s hazy-red vision cleared. The phantasms fell away, and he looked in horror upon the monster his fists had created— and he began to sob harder. 

“Boruto-! Boruto, I’m sorry, I don’t-!” he choked out through mangled sobs and groans. Boruto stared at him with bleary blue eyes; the blue seemed all the brighter with the swelling purple flesh surrounding his bloodshot whites. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” The whisper was small, filled with fear and horror. Shikadai could only stare helplessly as Ayumi came bounding up the steps. Apparently, the beating had happened in a span of literally seconds, providing her no time to separate them. Her brown eyes were wide as she knelt down beside the boy, clearly distraught as evidence by her teary eyes. 

“Boruto! Oh, dear, let me see,” she cooed as she gently turned his head so she could inspect his puffy and discolored face. “Oh, goodness-! Sarada, Sarada, get him to the medical ward; quickly, quickly!” she instructed even as she was using the hem of her dress to wipe the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Boruto kept muttering, “I’m okay, Miss Ayumi, I’m okay,” with a false smile on his face. 

Shikadai’s blood began to burn with the inane wish that he was in his place, being comforted by the motherly woman. His blue eyes fell to the book lying beside Boruto. Sneakily, he grabbed it and slid it over. His stomach lurched as he beheld the blood smattering the dark binding. Wordlessly, he wiped it off with a sleeve. 

His gaze flickered back up as Boruto whined miserably; Sarada and Ayumi were helping him to his feet, and the change in altitude was apparently making him nauseous. “Dear heavens, I hope he doesn’t have a concussion,” she fretted as her gaze flickered to the eerily quiet Shikadai. 

A flip switched. 

“Shikadai! What the hell were you thinking?! You almost beat him unconscious!” the woman screeched, chest heaving and cheeks flushed with ire. Shikadai felt the cold rush of bitter shame flood his veins like ice water. Hugging the blood-stained novel to his chest, he meekly looked down at the floor as Ayumi waited impatiently for an explanation. He really didn’t have a good one. 

“I-,” he tried meekly, but it felt like the words were sticking in his throat like hard, insoluble lumps of stone. “I… Book…” It was hardly a coherent thought, so he offered up the novel. Her eyebrows crept up to the roots of her hair as she regarded it perplexingly before her kind hands reached out to take it from him. “Present…” 

“Were you going to give this to me, Shikadai?” The gentleness in her voice made his heart flutter with unnamed emotion. He finally found the will to look up at her, and he did, smiling pathetically. 

“Yeah… I thought you would like it…” He had his hands behind his back, hiding the library stub that had his father’s name written on it in neat ink in the chart of previous borrowers. Ayumi was wearing a complicated expression as she stared down at the front cover. Her eyes slowly lifted to meet his, and the confusion there made him bristle.

“He… He just wouldn’t leave me alone about it! It was supposed to be for you! No one else needed to know about it! It was gonna be a secret! Just for us!” he babbled, his blood boiling at higher and higher centigrade with mounting mania.

“Okay, okay, Shikadai, I understand,” Ayumi interjected quickly. At the sound of her voice, cool clarity washed over him in an instant. She kneeled down in front of him, setting the book down on the floor before resting her hands on his shoulders. 

He melted into himself. He knew that he had no moral grounds on pummeling Boruto like he did. “Shikadai, I know you were upset, but hurting Boruto was  _ wrong _ .” 

“I know, Miss Ayumi,” he acknowledged pitifully. He sniffed as his bottom lip began to quiver and his eyes watered, and as his nose began to drip, he angrily wiped at it with his sleeve. “I know. I just got so  _ angry _ -!” 

“I know,” she sighed. Shikadai hung his head, unable to look at her for fear of the disappointment on her face. He hated it when she looked disappointed because she looked so much like his mother when she did. 

“You could have really hurt him. I know you’re not a mean person, Shikadai,” she cajoled him tenderly, grabbing his fists to rub her thumbs over the ripped skin of his knuckles. “These are a ninja’s hands. They aren’t meant to hurt people needlessly. They’re meant to  _ protect _ people.” 

He sniffed again, looking up despite himself because the words just seemed to pull him. She wasn’t looking at him in disdain at all; Ayumi had a warm smile on her pretty face, two rivers of tears silently streaming down her cheeks. “Promise me that you won’t ever use these hands of yours like that again.” 

“I promise, Miss Ayumi,” he assured her in a small voice. His gaze dropped to his hands, the hands that she insisted were meant to defend others. Were his mother’s hands like that? Were his father’s like that, once? Ayumi’s, too? 

He peered at the book out of the corners of his eyes. “Do you… like it? The book?” he asked hopefully. She dropped his hands to pick it up, flipping it over to scan the back cover. He watched her expression eagerly and nearly jumped with excitement when she smiled radiantly. 

“Yes. I think I’ll enjoy it very much. Thank you, Shikadai.” He was about to tell her that it was no problem at all, but the words dissolved in his throat when he suddenly embraced him. His eyes shook violently as he stared unseeing over her shoulder, arms limp though they burned to return the affection. Slowly, slowly, he was able to lift his impossibly heavy arms to wrap around her petite frame. 

How long had it been since he had been held by someone? At least a year. A long, grueling, terrible year. The tears began to pump from his eyes again, sobs building up inside of him. It felt so good. He felt so loved, and it had been so, so long since he had felt loved. 

“Nnghh…  _ Ah _ … M-miss Ayumi…” He choked on his words as the sobs snuck out, wracking his frame. She shushed him and rubbed his back, assuring him that it was all right to cry, that she knew it was hard, and she was there for him. So he cried and cried and cried some more until his throat was raw from screaming, and his cheeks were shining wet, and there was a darkened puddle on her shoulder. 

She held him all through it, never looking at him like he was weak or telling him that ninjas weren’t supposed to show emotion. After about thirty minutes of bawling, he collapsed into her, breathing hard but feeling a whole lot better. 

“Shuriken practice is almost over,” she cautioned him quietly. He nodded and sat up, rubbing at his face to wipe away the tear tracks and trying to steady his breathing. His eyes would be red and puffy for a good while, though. He didn’t think Inojin or Chocho would ask about it, though. 

He took a few minutes to calm himself, his teacher sitting patiently in front of him all the while. 

“… Miss Ayumi?” 

“Yes?” 

“Will you… Tell my father?” 

Her lips formed a thin line. 

“You hurt Boruto very badly. At the very least, I’ll have to have a conference with his mother and father.” 

His chin dropped to his chest, dread filling him up little by little. His relationship with his father was already rocky; how would he react to Shikadai beating people senseless after class? 

“Though… I think if you come to the conference and apologize to both Boruto and his parents, I’ll refrain from telling your father for now.” 

He gasped and looked up at her, gratitude swimming in his watery eyes. She smiled at him gently. “I know times are not easy for you, Shikadai, so I’ll cut you a little slack- just this once. If something like this happens again, I will have to discuss this errant behavior with Shikamaru, do you understand?” 

“Yes, Miss Ayumi! Thank you!” he nodded furiously. A second chance was more than he damn well deserved. Holding the book tightly, she rose to her feet and brushed the dirt from her knees before offering a hand to him. He took it, and she pulled him to his feet and smiled toothily at him once more. 

She looked just like his mother when she smiled, too. 


	6. Shatter

Bitter acid bubbled up in the back of Ayumi’s throat as Naruto shuffled his son through the classroom doorway. The poor boy’s face was even more of a mosaic of bruises than the previous day, splashes of purple and blue and black watercolors all melting together on the canvas of his face. His right eye had taken to brunt of the beating, as evidenced by the big white bandage secured over it, and Ayumi didn’t doubt that beneath the wrappings his eye was swollen and injected with blood. The school nurse had confirmed that he had suffered a concussion, for he could barely remember anything leading up to the beating, and so he had been given permission to rest at home that day. Ayumi had requested that if he was able, he should attend the parent-teacher conference so Shikadai could apologize to him properly.

The aforementioned boy was standing by Ayumi’s desk. Her heart twisted a little for him as his shoulders sagged and he looked guiltily at his feet upon seeing the destruction his fists had wrought. Ayumi exhaled slightly and bowed respectfully as Hinata and Naruto approached her, a hazy and pain pill-drugged Boruto in tow.

“Thank you very much for agreeing to meet with me under such short notice. I understand you are very busy, and this will not take long,” she assured the pair before straightening back up.

“No, thank you for setting this up, Ayumi,” the blond man responded with a slight smile and patted Boruto’s shoulders. His blue eyes flickered to Shikadai, and Ayumi did not miss the way the little boy cringed with shame. “I’m, uh, interested to hear what Shikadai has to say…”

“Actually, I would prefer it if the boys sorted this out for themselves,” she responded with a pointed glance at Shikadai. “Shikadai has assured me that he intends to apologize for his actions, so if you don’t mind, could we leave them to it?” Hinata and Naruto glanced at one another unsurely and seemed to have a mental discussion before they both nodded in approval. Hinata gave her son an encouraging push forward before the three adults walked out of the room, leaving the screen door cracked to observe. Ayumi watched them for a few seconds, verifying that Shikadai indeed began talking with the boy, before she looked at Hinata and Naruto with a small measure of guilt. “I’m sorry for the unusual approach. I scolded Shikadai thoroughly enough already and he didn’t attack Boruto out of pure malice,” she explained quietly. Her heart twisted again when she heard Shikadai softly crying.

“Why would Shikadai attack him? He’s never been a violent boy,” Hinata frowned while looking at her husband worriedly. Naruto pursed his lips together and rubbed the bottom of his chin thoughtfully as he contemplated Shikadai’s errant behavior. Ayumi gulped and shuffled her feet together nervously as she fretted over what she wanted to say but really ought not to. She decided to ignore the traditional barrier of proprieties.

“It may not be my place to meddle, but… Do you two have any inklings of what Shikadai’s home situation may be like?” The shocked glances of realization the husband and wife exchanged between each other were answer enough. Naruto grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, clearly not wishing to say anything; however, Hinata gave an insistent tilt of her head and roll of her eyes towards Ayumi that was clearly an order for him to speak. His mouth twitched into a defeated expression before he looked at Ayumi uncomfortably.

“Well… His father, Shikamaru… isn’t in that great of a mental state right now. He and Shikadai aren’t nearly as close as they used to be,” he offered up helpfully, but it was very obvious to Ayumi that he was holding back.

“If you are suggesting that Shikadai’s outburst is related to his strained home situation, it’s clear the problem is worse than we’ve imagined,” Hinata said with a pointed side-eye at her husband. Naruto flushed light pink and grumbled something about having a talk with Shikamaru. Hinata glanced into the room and smiled slightly, prompting Ayumi to also take a glance into the room; Boruto was awkwardly hugging the sobbing Shikadai in clear forgiveness. _Well… At least that’s one problem taken care of,_ the teacher thought with a small sigh of relief. _Still… Unless you attack the base of the fire, the flames will grow back up again._ “Ayumi,” Hinata said and the teacher glanced back at her with slightly raised eyebrows. “Thank you. It’s reassuring to know that there is a teacher who cares so much about her students’ well-being.” Ayumi flushed a bright fuchsia color and nervously dismissed her compliment with the proper level of professionalism, but on the inside, she was overjoyed to be referred to in such a way.

“Stupid Shikamaru, causing problems for such a nice lady,” Naruto grumbled under his breath before calling for his son to rejoin them in the hallway. Boruto gave Shikadai one last pat on the head and what seemed to be a kind remark before trotting carefully back to the door. “Didja make up?”

“Yeah,” the boy chirped in honest confirmation, “we’re good. It’s my fault, really; I should have more consideration for what he’s goin’ through and all… And he apologized for hittin’ me.” Hinata beamed proudly and opened her arms for a hug, which Boruto leaned forward to indulge in.

“That’s good. Shikadai needs kindness right now.” The mother petted his fluffy blond hair before giving Ayumi a grateful smile. “I think you should discuss things with Shikamaru, Ayumi.” The teacher frowned and played with the ends of her chestnut hair uncomfortably; approaching a volatile man with apparent mental instabilities and accusing him of neglect was not something she could just _do_. Still, she nodded in agreement. Shikadai’s health and well-being depended on intervention, and so for his sake she would do what must be done. Somehow…

“Thank ya again! We’ll be goin’ now!” Naruto grinned while raising his hand in a jovial wave, but he stopped short as the clear sound of a door slamming open resounded through the empty schoolhouse. Hinata protectively pushed Boruto behind herself and Naruto’s hand inched towards his ninja tool pouch; his fingers halted a few centimeters away from the flap when a very flustered and angry Shikamaru rounded the corner. The red-faced man stopped short for a few seconds when he spied the three adults standing there, but then his angular eyes shot towards the threshold of the door.

“Shikadai! Shikadai, where are you?!” he hollered angrily as he advanced. Naruto stepped forward to interrupt him, but Shikamaru easily shouldered him aside and continued right on stomping forward. Ayumi heard Shikadai exclaim in horror and run forward to bury his face into the folds of her dress, and she could feel his entire body quaking with fear of reprimand. Setting her jaw into a fierce scowl, she braced herself in the threshold of the doorway and squared her body just as the much taller man loomed over her. “Ayumi. Move. I wish to have a conversation with my son.” His tone was level with the falsehood of calm, but Ayumi could sense the venom dripping from every word. His eyes were hollow and lifeless but burning with the ferocity of a man unhinged. It was unsettling, to be in the face of such raw mania, but Ayumi nevertheless stood her ground and snapped her face up to glare into his.

“I will do _no_ such thing! What did you think you could do; waltz into my parent-teacher conference and go _ballistic_?! You will not be coming within _ten feet_ of Shikadai until you have calmed down and begun thinking clearly!” She punctuated her angry spats with sharp jabs into his sternum. To her surprise, his eyes widened and he obediently stepped a few paces back to slump into the wall. It was almost _too_ obedient; he looked frightened, almost, face growing ashen as if he had just seen a ghost. The reaction made her simmering blood dial down somewhat, and she blew a hot breath out of her nose before she grew too angry. She closed her eyes and composed herself, smoothing out the creases of her dress before uttering a sharp, “Thank you. Much better.”

“Uhhh…” Naruto said dumbly, looking between the wide-eyed Shikamaru and the flushed Ayumi.

“Thank you for coming to my defense, Naruto, but I am fully capable of handling this. Please, I wish to discuss this matter with Shikamaru alone, so you and Hinata may go. Thank you for your time.”

“Does she kind of remind you of-?” the blond started under his breath to his wife, who quickly shushed him and shuffled him along with one final, quick bow to the teacher. Ayumi remained firmly planted in the doorway to the classroom with the shuddering Shikadai behind her; she felt the little boy shift as he finally worked up the courage to peer around her side at his father. Shikamaru’s eyes squinted a little as he was greeted by the teary-eyed terrified face of his son, then went even wider than before. Slowly, like molasses oozing from a tree, he slumped down into a sitting position and put his head in his hands.

“ _Fuck_.” Ayumi’s cheeks reddened at the foul language but she did not comment, as she supposed he was allowed some affordances considering his mind was probably the consistency of jelly at the moment. Quietly, she assured Shikadai that his father was calmer now and guided him out from behind her so he could stand stiffly beside her. With a few gentle rubs into his small back, Ayumi side-eyed Shikamaru critically.

“A ninja of your esteem should know better than to come storming in here like a man possessed.” She could sympathize with his situation, however unclear it was to her, but there was no excuse for the way he barged into the schoolhouse with the intent to do who-knows-what in blind anger. She was going to make it very clear how she felt about his behavior, on the off-chance that it actually did some good. She thought it not possible, but the man’s shoulders sagged further, like she was heaping the weight of the world atop him. Doubt began to creep into her mind at the miserable display, but she forced it back. _Stand your ground, Ayumi. Shikadai needs someone in his corner, and Shikamaru needs someone to yank him out of whatever slump this is._ She compulsively straightened up as a smirk curled across his lips, which were peeking out from underneath his hands and linked over his eyes.

“You’re right.” His words were broken, like cracked glass he was forcing out of his shredded throat. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It was not me you frightened!” she huffed and looked down at Shikadai. She expected to see him still scared, but instead she saw something far worse; his eyes were lidded as he gazed silently at his father in a mixture of pity and disgust. It was a look no child should direct at their parent, and Ayumi prickled with the fear that this rift between them was more like a mile-wide chasm. She cleared her throat uncomfortably before looking back at Shikamaru. “You should take more care in how you approach Shikadai. No healthy discussion can come from you yelling and screaming like a deranged lunatic.” There was no more bite in her words anymore; she spoke to him like she did her children, reaching out a hand with her voice, encouraging them to be better. That was what he looked like right now, a child, beaten and cast aside for no one to mourn.

What in the hell could drive a man to such a deplorable state?

His long arms slowly fell away from his face as he looked at her with a mixture of gratitude and self-loathing. With a soft grunt, he pushed himself back up into a standing position and slipped his hands into his pockets. She straightened up as well when he reached his full height, subconsciously trying to maintain the illusion of control despite the fact he had a good six inches on her. “Ah-ahem… Thank you.” She was honestly surprised at how easily she had subdued him. A man in such ire could be an uncontrollable force, but all it took was one scolding to calm him. Were his emotions really in such a roil that one small trigger could shift them from one extreme to the next? Perhaps he wasn’t really that angry at all, but so incapable of controlling his emotions that they just overtook him at the slightest provocation. That, unfortunately, was not something that Ayumi could dwell on at the moment. “What brings you here?” she demanded calmly.

“I heard from Ino that my son beat Boruto into a bloody pulp.” Shikadai gulped loudly beside her and looked once more at his feet. Ayumi, not one to be intimidated, met his inquisitive and authoritarian gaze levelly.

“Indeed. Your son is having as much trouble controlling his emotions are you are.” The barb was sharp and unforgiving, and she could actually see the moment it struck his heart with the defined twitch of the vein in his forehead and the way he clenched his teeth. He didn’t look angry, though. He looked guilty, sad, defeated. Ayumi, deciding to cut him at least a little slack, exhaled softly and smiled slightly at him. “The matter has been addressed. Hinata and Naruto were very understanding, and Boruto and Shikadai have made amends. He’s already been scolded enough.” She half-expected to tell her it was none of her business, but instead he nodded sagely and ran the flat of his hand over his mouth, falling back to lean against the wall again.

“I see… I see…” he mumbled incoherently under his breath. He was beginning to get a faraway look on his face, like fog drifting into the bay in early morning. Scared she was losing her chance to actually get through to the man, she stepped forward quickly.

“Shikamaru, this may not be my place, but… I am not just here for my students. If anything troubles you, please don’t hesitate…” her words died in her throat as he gave her a reproachful look that rattled her to the core. She swallowed thickly as his tall, thin form approached to tower over her, and she craned her head back instinctively as her wide eyes were captive to the hard iron of his black eyes stabbing all the way through her. Under different circumstances, his face was close enough to be seen as romantic and intimate, but now it was purely threatening.

“Don’t stick your nose in where it isn’t wanted. You don’t know me, and you don’t know Shikadai, for that matter. That book he gave you- did he tell you he stole it?” Ayumi’s mouth was dryer than an arid desert in the face of such open hostility, and yet… Yet, it _didn’t_ seem hostile, but more like desperation. A desperate attempt to maintain the walls she was threatening to punch through. She could see it, in the shaking of his eyes, in the clench of his jaw, in the way his hand rose to gently sweep a strand of her hair away as it fell into her face. There was no malice in the gesture, but a sad, longing tenderness that died as he snatched his hand back like her skin had burned him. Her mind almost couldn’t process this, however, as it was reeling from the damning accusation.

“Stole…?” As proof, he held up the library stub printed with the title of the book and his signature. Face paling, she looked down at Shikadai to see him clasping his hands at his front and bowing his head in a plead for forgiveness.

“… I just… I just thought… You would appreciate it more than he did, Miss Ayumi,” the boy admitted quietly. Ayumi’s throat bobbed a few times in an attempt to swallow the hard lump thick in her trachea. She was beginning to grow hot, with the sudden turn of events and Shikamaru’s body caging her in the threshold of the doorway. Her head spun a little and her breath began to come in ragged gasps, and cold sweat began to glimmer on her pale yet burning skin. As her eyes hazed, she looked up at him in confusion, and saw a very peculiar transformation occurring on his features.

“Hey. Hey, are you all right?” he dropped the library stub as his hands flew to her hips, steadying her body as it began to wobble. She found purchase by gripping hard on his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his tan coat. It still smelled faintly of her laundry detergent. _I just thought you would appreciate it more than he did._ She had heard those words before. She’d been here before, too, body caged in as she faced an impossible inquisition… A low whine keened from her shaking lips as phantasms bled forth from the recesses of her mind, smoke burning in her nostrils and red flames licking at the edges of her darkening vision. Oh, she was going to faint. _She was going to faint_.

“What’d you do to her?!” Shikadai demanded in a high-pitched scream as her legs gave out and she tipped backwards.

“I didn’t-! Ayumi! Hey!” Shikamaru yelled. He supported her body with one thick arm wrapped around the back of her waist while he snapped his fingers insistently in front of her face. Her eyelashes fluttered repeatedly as her eyes threatened to roll back into her head, teasing visions of snow and fire and the night sky making her nauseous.

“Noooooooo… I didn’t…. Mean it….” She groaned under her rapid breaths as she fought against delving into the hallucinations. She could vaguely feel her body slowly and jerkily being lowered to the cold wood floor as Shikamaru stumbled through the doorway, feeling his weight on her in a straddle when he checked her pulse on her clammy neck. Shikadai and Shikamaru’s voices felt distant as they fearfully conversed.

“Her heart rate is through the roof!”

“Is she gonna be okay?”

“I think she’s having some sort of panic attack. Hey!” he punctuated the yell with a resounding clap of his hands before her face. “Ayumi! Snap out of it!” He repeatedly smacked his hands together, and the sounds fireworked in her bleary brain, coaxing it back to reality. Her eyelashes flapped insistently as the kaleidoscope of ghostly nightmares phased into blackness- and slowly, that blackness morphed into the visage of a very concerned Shikamaru leaning over her. _That,_ she thought weakly, _That’s how you should look._ “Ayumi. Can you hear me?” Her tongue felt as dry as sandpaper, so she only nodded feebly in response. “Can you breathe?” Her lungs were still stuttering in the wake of hyperventilation, but her breaths were settling back into a normal rhythm, so she nodded again. As her thoughts began to grow more lucid, she swallowed hard. _I haven’t had an episode in over a year… I was doing so well…_ Shikamaru caught the hitch in her breathing return and snapped his fingers before her eyes again. “Hey.”

Obediently, she shoved those feelings back into the darkness where they belonged, praying that there they may stay.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was the broken glass now. His eyebrows were furrowed uncomfortably as he stared down at her.

“Do I need to take you to the hospital?”

“No. I’m all right. I’m anemic and get a little faint every now and then.” A lie, a bold lie that he saw right through. His already angular jawline sharpened with his suspicious frown.

“Ayumi-”

“Don’t stick your nose in where it isn’t wanted,” she countered with far more venom than she meant. His mouth hung open as she cut the words right off his tongue with her barbed response, then it slowly shut as he nodded, lips folding in on themselves.

“Yeah. I suppose that’s fair.” She wanted to immediately apologize, but he was already climbing off her. He turned his back but still offered a hand, the other sliding into his pants pocket. Feeling shameful for rebuking him when he had actually shown concern for her health, she timidly took the offered hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She was too absorbed in her own self-pity to marvel at the strength he displayed by effortlessly jerking her to her feet with one arm. Shikadai immediately rushed to cling to her dress, looking her over in worry.

“I’m all right. It was just a fainting spell,” she reassured him with a small smile before glancing back at her desk, where the novel sat. Shikadai’s eyes followed her gaze before he cringed guiltily against her. “It’s high time the book be returned to the library. I’m finished with it anyway, and we wouldn’t want your father to get a fine, now would we?”

“No, Miss Ayumi,” he relented submissively and detached himself from her to go claim the book. As he passed her, he gave her one final worried glance before walking over to stand by his father. Shikamaru looked critically down at his son but apparently decided a scolding was not warranted, or at least, it wasn’t worth Ayumi’s intervention. She leaned into the doorframe as she studied him. He was looking down at Shikadai with a mixture of emotions on his tired face. _I wonder if they’ll ever reconcile._ It pained her to think that it wasn’t likely, at least not without massive effort on her part. She set her jaw determinedly and made an internal conviction. If massive effort was what was required to repair the bond between father and son, then that was what she would put forth.

“Ayumi.” His voice snatched her from her thoughts. When she looked at him, her breath was stolen from her lungs again, this time by the deeply apologetic look on his face. “I’m sorry, about… you know,” he said awkwardly and looked at his feet. _Like father, like son,_ she thought absently. “I don’t mean to be… difficult. I just… I’m not…”

“I know,” she cajoled him gently. He looked up at her and the amount of pathetic hope in his eyes was enough to break even the stoutest man’s heart. She smiled sweetly and peeled herself away from the door to stand in front of him. “I don’t hold it against you, just as much as I don’t hold Shikadai’s actions against him- just this once, at least. I’m a teacher and have to uphold some level of discipline, you understand.” They both gave strained laughs at her joke. She hesitated for a second before reaching out to straighten out his crumpled coat, wrinkled from handling her body during her fainting spell. She was very aware of the way his breath halted in his chest at her intimate action. Her hand fell, just barely brushing against the front of his chest, before falling to her side. “I… Meant what I said, you know,” she offered weakly, slightly fearful of angering him again. “I’m here for you as much as I am for Shikadai, so… if you ever feel like you have nowhere else to turn to… Please don’t hesitate.” She couldn’t look up at him and she knew not why. Maybe she didn’t want to see the look on his face, to live in suspense lest she see something there far deeper than a relationship a teacher and parent ought to have. She saw his hand twitch and rise toward her face, then fall back.

“Thank you, Ayumi. Have a good night.” And then he was gone, little Shikadai in tow, leaving Ayumi alone in the empty schoolhouse. Her gaze trailed after his form long after it was gone, admittedly wondering how he looked at her but never knowing. Wondering, deep down, if she could bridge that chasm that Shikadai’s mother left… somehow.

~~~~~~~~~~

The air was cold with the deepening of night, though comfortably so, as it was still early in the summer evening. The soft grass swished under the soles of Shikamaru’s shoes as he wordlessly walked across the schoolyard with his son mutely shambling along beside him.

“Dad… Aren’t you going to yell at me for taking the book?” Shikamaru side-eyed his son to see him staring listlessly at the autobiography in his hands. Shikamaru inhaled sharply through his nose, then exhaled.

“Nah. Ayumi’s right. You’ve been scolded enough.” After all that, Shikamaru didn’t even have the energy to scold him anyway. He was so fucking tired. He just wanted to sleep, and maybe not wake up. Grunting, he pushed his knuckles into his eyes. That was no way to think, he knew that, but damn, it was so hard… Especially now, with that damn woman and how much she reminded him of-

He slammed the brakes on that train of thought before it derailed him. If there was going to be anything that sent him off into another manic rage, it would be _that_. He puffed a few breaths out, trying to keep his heart rate from escalating, and closed his eyes for a few seconds as he walked along the road. The only conversation between himself and his son were the scrapes of their shoes in the dirt.

“Dad…” _Fuck_. He was a piece of shit, making his son sound so damn pleading. He knew that. He had been knowing that. But somehow it was all too much, trying to piece himself back together. He tried and he failed and he tried and he failed. Failing was getting pretty damn old.

“What, son?” he couldn’t keep the brokenness out of his voice and that disquieted Shikadai. As Shikamaru dropped his hands from his face, the boy just shook his head, refusing to speak. Silence settled back between them like it was an old friend. At this point, it was. Exhaling miserably, Shikamaru tipped his head back to watch the wispy gray clouds float over the stars.

_Temari… What am I supposed to **do**? _


	7. Gratitude

Ayumi’s eyebrows were furrowed as her gaze painstakingly crawled through every word of her manuscript draft for the fifth time. Her hand was holding a cup of coffee to her mouth, but the liquid just lapped uselessly against her upper lip instead of being drawn in because she was hyper-focusing on the printed words. The page was already smothered in red ink, indicating spelling and grammar errors or sections that needed rephrasing for her next draft. Her brown eyes widened when she stumbled across yet another mistake, and she slammed the coffee cup down to scribble on the area with her pen lest she immediately forget her thought process. It was the last sentence of the document, and so once she had finished adding her note, she set the manuscript down on the table with a weary sigh. 

_ I think that’s enough proofreading for now. I should begin incorporating these edits into the file… _ Ayumi thought as she reclined back in the café chair and rubbed at her aching eyes. She then lolled her head to look out the window at the bustling streets of Konoha.

Usually, Ayumi worked on her personal research at home or in the public library. However, she had felt that a change of pace would do her good. She elected to work at the café by the schoolhouse. It was the same little joint she had brought Shikadai to when she had walked him home. She actually loved the quaint place; it had phenomenal teas and coffees imported from all over the world, and its pastries were all family recipes. She was on excellent terms with the owner, and they had even thrown in a free coffee cake with her purchase that afternoon. 

She picked up her coffee cup again, actually intending to consume it this time, and noticed that only a small amount of the beige liquid remained. She quickly drained the last dregs of it before shifting in her chair to go order a refill. However, before she could rise, someone set down a steaming hot and full cup of coffee right in front of her. Blushing, she glanced up with a gratuitous remark dancing on her tongue. It died when she saw who it was.

“You’re working awfully hard,” Shikamaru smirked down at her. He gestured to the iron-wrought chair opposite her. “May I?”

“Y-yes!” she stammered, thankfully finding her words again. He strode around the small table to sink down into the chair with a long, tired sigh. “Um… Thank you for the coffee,” she murmured shyly and slid it across the table towards herself. Its warmth bloomed across her palms, not unlike the warmth blossoming in her chest at his kind gesture. He waved a hand dismissively and sipped languorously at his own cup of pure black coffee.

“I saw you from the counter. The owner mentioned that you’d been here since 8 o’clock. I figured you needed a replacement,” he chuckled. Ayumi smiled shyly and sipped daintily at the fresh coffee. The owner knew her order by heart; the robust brew was sweetened to perfection with a combination of sugar and sweet cream, turning the dark liquid a honey-brown color. Its bittersweet taste spread over her tongue, easing her tensions, and her body began to buzz as it absorbed the fresh wave of stimulating caffeine. The minuscule amount of fatigue she had started to feel was swallowed in its invigorating wake. Shikamaru smiled in amusement. “You look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed already.”

“Yes, I don’t drink much caffeine actually, so it works rather quickly,” she explained. Shikamaru’s gaze dropped down to the collection of papers strewn in front of her. He looked as if he were going to inquire, so she enlightened him before he even opened his mouth to ask. “I publish historical research. I’m editing a draft of a manuscript that I’m hoping to submit to an academic journal soon.” 

He whistled in admiration and gestured to the stack of papers, wishing to peruse them; Ayumi nodded in permission, and he scooped them up to begin skimming the document.

“‘The Sociopolitical Impacts of the Second Great Ninja War on the Rural Village of Nichibotsu’?” he said with raised eyebrows as he rattled off the paper’s title. His eyebrows crept higher and higher up his forehead as he rifled through the pages of paragraphs, maps, and diagrams. “Records of personal accounts… Photocopies of death and birth records… Even photographs of the riots… The riots in Nichibotsu resulting from the governing body’s underhanded support of the enemy and human rights violations are actually very scarcely mentioned in history textbooks. Most people don’t know they ever  _ happened _ . How did you ever find so much information on them?” He asked with a clear tone of awe, which made Ayumi flush and wiggle in her chair self-consciously.

“Well, I took a few personal trips to Nichibotsu to converse with the locals. Many of those documents were stored away in their attics and basements. They were more than happy to share them with me if it meant the plight of their ancestors would get the attention it deserves.” 

He clicked his tongue appreciatively and nodded with another glance down at her scribble-covered manuscript. 

“This is a very impressive account. I hope you’re able to publish it, and it gets the recognition it merits,” Shikamaru smiled as he handed the papers back. Ayumi hid her bashful grin behind her coffee cup. Shikamaru reclined back in his chair, tossing his arm over the top and looking off in the distance. A silence settled between them, a silence that caused Ayumi to fidget uncomfortably. The parent-teacher conference had only been a few days ago, and the tension between father and son was never far from her mind. Looking at Shikamaru, his lidded gaze searching the horizon for something unknown, she once again wondered if there was anything she could do to ease their pain. 

As Shikamaru shifted, a flicker of light caught Ayumi’s attention. She followed the bobbing white light to see the sunlight refracting off the smooth, slim surface of a diamond ring, hanging on a silver chain against Shikamaru’s chest. It was most obviously a wedding band. She stared at it with wide eyes, her breath hitching in her throat; when Shikamaru noticed her intense gaze, he frowned and tucked the ring back underneath his shirt. 

“Don’t stick my nose in where it’s not wanted, right?” she asked hollowly. Shikamaru’s frown deepened at her echo of his unkind words, and he rubbed at the back of his neck. “You don’t have to answer me… but I think it’s important for Shikadai’s sake… that I know what happened to your wife,” she posed slowly. Shikamaru’s dark eyes bored into hers. Doubt and fear swam within the black depths. “I only want to help my student.”  _ And you.  _

Shikamaru inhaled sharply, then breathed out through his nose. He hunched over the coffee table while gripping his coffee cup tight, bending the plastic under the force and causing the dark liquid to bulge near the rim. He did not answer her for several minutes, ruminating on the decision to allow Ayumi into his fractured heart or continue to keep her beyond the walls he had built. 

His eyes fixated on the swirls of bubbles floating in his coffee. 

“My wife perished on a mission,” he revealed quietly. His thumbs slowly slid up and down on the smooth paper of the coffee cup. “One year ago.” He drained the cup of the bitter liquid and set it down, lips smoothing into a thin, terse line. Sensing that the troubled man wished to offer no further explanation, Ayumi did not press him for more information. 

“I see. I’m sorry to hear that.” And she was. Death never loomed far from ninja, even in times of supposed peace. Even routine missions could turn deadly. Such was the uncertainty of their profession. Saddening news as it was, Ayumi was still glad for it; finally, she could understand the rift between Shikamaru and his son and why Shikadai was so emotionally volatile. Everyone responded to sudden deaths of loved ones differently— and it was clear that these two had reacted very negatively, one lashing out and the other trying desperately to bottle everything up inside. 

Shikamaru only grunted at her in response. His brows were furrowed deep over his eyes, bringing hard edges to his dark pupils. His hand curled over his mouth with a stiff grip that turned his knuckles white. She wondered if she had pressed him too much in her quest for information; guilt prickled at her gut. As she squirmed uncomfortably, Shikamaru’s eyes slowly flickered up to meet her face. The hint of a smile peeked above the edge of his hand. 

“Don’t look so uneasy. I’m all right,” Shikamaru chortled. The strain in his tone left much to be desired; it was clear he was trying to put up a strong front to keep Ayumi from pestering further. Despite her curiosity, Ayumi knew that the best thing to do would be to allow Shikamaru to reveal his tragic story at his own pace. 

As he dropped his hand, he continued, “I’m actually grateful, you know, to see you taking such an interest in Shikadai’s welfare.” Ayumi perked up, a haze of pink dusting her cheeks. He smiled wryly, seemingly amused by her bashfulness and surprise. “I know I’m not going to win Parent of the Year or anything, but I  _ do  _ care about my son. I recognize that he needs a positive influence in his life, considering I’m anything but.” 

“You sell yourself short,” Ayumi contradicted quietly. “You’re a man who’s suffered an inconceivable loss. Both of you have. Difficulty processing and managing that is to be expected.” She breathed in quietly and then timidly reached out to take Shikamaru’s hand. He did not retreat from her, only stared down at her small hand covering his own through lidded, pained eyes. “I’m not sure what it’s worth… but I think you’re doing the best you can given your situation. Both you and Shikadai have shown tremendous growth just since I’ve known you… I’m sure that with time that you two will be able to come together again.” 

Shikamaru continued to just stare silently at her hand, watching her thumb gently sweep back and forth over the top. A smile crawled onto his lips, and his gaze slowly up to her warm brown eyes. 

“Well, that’s not due to anything on  _ my  _ part.” 

Ayumi’s face flushed at the implication of his words. She fiddled with her manuscript, flipping the corners of the pages as she tried not to seem too satisfied with his unspoken praise. 

“You sell yourself short,” she repeated meekly. Shikamaru snorted amusedly, once again studying her hand. It was clearly a teacher’s, smooth and unblemished— not like Shikamaru’s, which was roughened with years of battle and toil. He studied her hand like it held all the solutions to his problems, which made her flush darker and fidget in her chair. As her hand twitched over his, it seemed he decided that he’d disrupted Ayumi’s work long enough. 

She lamented the loss of his gentle heat as he withdrew his hand from underneath hers. 

“Well, I do believe I’ve taken up enough of your time,” he sighed, languidly rising from the chair. “I’d hate to delay your contribution to academia any further,” he chuckled with a small wink. Ayumi giggled and hugged her edited manuscript to her chest with one hand while reaching for her coffee with the other. When she brought it to her lips, she recoiled, discovering that the liquid had long since gone cold. She smacked her lips distastefully and set it down with a grimace. 

“I’ve definitely taken up enough of your time,” Shikamaru joked and fished out some bills from his pocket. Ayumi sputtered refusals, but he still tucked them underneath her coffee cup with a willful smile. “It’s the least I can do, Ayumi,” he insisted in a soft voice. The gentle rumble of his tone made her heart flutter and the words dissolve on her tongue before she could speak them. 

It took her a few seconds to recollect her swooning brain. 

“Th-there’s nothing to repay,” she stammered and shyly tucked her hair behind her ear. “I am only doing my part as Shikadai’s teacher… and your friend,” she added hopefully. Shikamaru straightened, staring down at her with a complicated expression. He then smiled warmly and reached in to sweep away a stray strand of hair that she’d missed. As his fingertips skimmed over her heating skin and her eyes beheld that absolutely beautiful smile of his, all the breath left her lungs. 

“I’m grateful.” 

His smile vanished as soon as it had come, like the sun eclipsed by the relentless clouds rolling across the sky. Ayumi was left reeling, blinking rapidly as she watched him turn his back to head back to work. As she stumbled out a farewell, he looked over his shoulder, the shadow of that happy smile playing over his lips. 

“I expect a copy of the article when it’s published,” was all he said before he melted into the crowd. Ayumi gazed wide-eyed at the space where he’d been, and the glimpses of that toothy, giddy smile danced like stars in her mind’s eye. She wondered how long it had been since he’d smiled like that and what she had to do to see it again. She wondered if Shikadai smiled like that, too, or if he carried a little bit of his mother in his grin. 

Ayumi picked up the cash and stood up to get herself another cup of coffee. There was work to be done. 


End file.
